by Alyson Noel
“You are her, aren’t you?” She checks with her friends, her gaze turning first to the girl on her right wearing the gloppy pink lip gloss, and then to the one on her left with the overplucked eyebrows and iridescent purple eyeshadow, turning back to me when she says, “Even without the bandanna and the horse, I know it’s you. You were singing too—weren’t you? How’d that song go again—something about strength, perception, and giving direction? Maybe you should sing it for us?” Her dark eyes flash on mine as her friends fall all over themselves, laughing hysterically into their hands.
I start to walk away, only to have her slip right before me, and say, “Seriously.” She nods, smiling like she means it. “We’d really like to hear it. So go ahead—sing your psycho song.”
My hands curl to fists. She’s mocking the mountainsong. Has no idea how much power it holds—how much power I hold. I could crush her in ways she couldn’t begin to imagine. Or, at the very least, humiliate her in a way she’d never live down.
But I can’t.
Won’t.
Paloma warned me about that. Said I had to use my skill for the greater good—to not squander my powers on protecting my ego.
I try to move around them, but they move right along with me. Their arms linked together in an impenetrable wall of designer knockoff jeans, padded bras, and pop-star perfume. Still, as much as I make fun of them in my head, the actual effect is far more intimidating than the big iron gate that surrounds the school grounds. Without the use of my magick, I’m no match for them. I have no idea how to deal with this. No idea how to get out of this.
“How’d you get to school?” one of them says, the one on the right with the glossy pink lips. “Is your horse parked out front?” She laughs well before the joke is out, which kind of ruins the timing. Still, her eyes flick toward the girl in the middle, seeking her approval, as I stand there and stare, telling myself that they’re silly and stupid and not worth my wrath. But even though I know it to be true, the crowd of students growing around us pretty much deletes all that.
They press closer, everyone wanting to get a better view of the kind of new-girl hazing they don’t get to see every day—every last one of them relieved that it’s me and not them. The sheer size of the audience encouraging the girl in the middle to speak up again, voice rising when she says, “Clearly nobody told you we don’t allow psycho girls at this school. So maybe you should go back to your mental ward.”
I swallow hard. Tell myself to let it go, to not make it any worse than it already is—but discard that thought just as quickly. It’s better to nip it right now. Let them know I’m not one to be messed with. My silence will only encourage them to stalk me until graduation.
Despite a lifetime of being told to remain unobtrusive, in this case I’ve already failed. I’ve been spotted, picked out of the crowd, so there’s really no point in acting submissive.
“No psychos?” My eyes dart among them, until I settle on the ringleader and take a step toward her. “Then how do you explain yourself? Did they bend the rules for you?”
Her eyes bulge. Her face burns with rage. As her sidekicks stand mutely beside her, too shocked to react, or at least not right away.
She steps toward me, face scrunched and feral, but I remain in my place, staring her down and keeping my cool.
She has no idea who I am. Has no idea what I’m capable of, the kind of magick I’ve been practicing since I completed my vision quest. A verbal insult is nothing. She’s getting off easy.
With her face just inches from mine, so close I can just make out the circle of pink, unhealed skin surrounding her Marilyn piercing, she reaches for my shoulder, presumably to give me a nice good shove—start a fight she cannot, will not, win—when he appears, masquerading in his favorite role as the noble white knight on a mission to save me.
“These girls messing with you?” He stops the girl from going any further by sliding his arm tightly around her and pulling her close to his side, the move instantly subduing her to silence. His gaze fixed on mine when he adds, “Or, maybe it’s the other way around—you bothering them?” He throws his head back and laughs, the sound so alluring, so magnetic, it causes the girls to forget about me and train their focus on him. “Sorry you got off to a rough start.” He smiles. Extends his right hand. “Maybe I can make up for it. We’ve met a few times already, I know, but never formally, so now’s my big chance—I’m Cade. Cade Richter.”
His hand hovers before me, but I make no move to take it, no move to acknowledge it. “I know exactly who you are,” I tell him, noting the way his lip twitches with delight, as his gaze connects with mine. The two of us knowing what no one else does, I’m no longer hiding.
It’s me against him.
Santos vs. Richter.
Seeker vs. El Coyote.
The game is now on.
I turn, determined to leave it at that, or at least for now anyway. There’s no need to rush into anything, especially when Paloma still has so much more to teach me.
Doing my best to ignore him when he calls out from behind, “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Milagro High! If you should need anything, I am at your service.” His words met by a chorus of laughter that bursts out all around him.
I pick up the pace, moving so fast I’m practically sprinting. Slowing only when I’ve rounded a corner where I stop, sag against the wall, and fight to catch my breath. Relieved to know it’s not Cade who set my heart beating triple time, I can and will deal with him. It’s the mean girl stuff that got me off kilter. Having avoided school all these years, I’ve never had to deal with that sort of thing.
On the set, the snootier stars always kept to themselves, figuring they were far too important to mingle with the likes of the lesser cast and crew. This is my first time being bullied. And while I’m sure I could’ve done better—I definitely could’ve done worse.
Much worse.
She’ll think twice before she messes with me again.
Or not.
There’s just as good a chance she’s roaming the halls, sharpening her talons, gathering the troops, and gearing up for a grisly round two.
Great. First day of school and I’m doomed. The enemy turns out to be someone Paloma never even warned me about.
“Coulda been worse.”
I lift my head to find a small slim girl with light brown hair, delicate features, a beautiful heart-shaped face, and soft gray eyes that look just to the right of me.
“Being a brunette’s safer. If you were blond, they would’ve eaten you alive, for sure.”
I peer at her closer, noting the way her gaze fails to meet mine, how she grips a red-tipped white cane in her hand—all of which leads me to believe there’s no way she could know what hair color I have.
“Last new girl didn’t fare so well,” she continues. “Mostly on account of her being a natural blue-eyed blonde, she didn’t stand a chance around here. Lasted just shy of two months before she called it quits and enrolled in Internet school.” She shrugs. “It’s too bad. I really did like her. But I have a feeling you’ll do a lot better. Try to hang in there. Though I’m not gonna lie—chances are they’ll never come around. Yet, with your dark hair and green eyes, at least you’ll blend in, which makes you way less of a threat. If you stay out of their way, eventually they’ll grow bored and stay out of yours. That said, Cade could pose a problem. He seems to be pretty intrigued by you—and Lita, the ringleader, is not going to like that. They’ve had an off-and-on thing for years now. Even when they’re officially off, she doesn’t quite see it that way, and any girl who goes after him ends up regretting it.” She cocks her head to the side, as though working a serious mental equation—calculating the statistical probability of my surviving this school.
Then focusing on me again, well, not really focusing, more like acknowledging, she says, “I’m Sochee. That’s how it’s pronounced: So—chee. I tell you that because if you saw the way it was spelled, you’d never guess. Anyway, It’s X-O-T
-I-C-H-L, and just so you know, it means flower. Some people pronounce it with a soft T at the end, or even a shee or sheel sound instead of chee—but Sochee is the way I was taught to say it, so that’s how I say it.” She nods, signaling that’s the end of it and I can’t help but feel relieved; my head is spinning from just about everything she just said.
“And it’s my guess that right about now your eyes are darting like crazy, frantically searching for an exit, figuring you’ve gone from the scary mean girls to a downright crazy girl with a weird name, and you can’t decide which is worse.” She laughs, and the sound is as light and bright and beautiful as she is.
“How do you know all that … when you’re … well, it seems like you might be…” Several choices flit through my head, but I’m not sure which is politically correct, so I just let the sentence dangle unfinished.
“Blind? Vision impaired? Lacking in visual perception?” She leans toward me, flashing a generous smile that displays a row of straight white teeth. “Well, just so you know, the answer is yes to all three. So tell me, was this your first clue?”
She taps her cane against the gray-tiled floor, the move causing my cheeks to heat so much I’m glad she can’t see me. Still, I’m not about to let her off the hook. “So with that in mind, how could you possibly know I’m a green-eyed brunette?” I ask, looking her over again, wondering if she’s faking it, wondering if there was some kind of school bulletin warning all the students about the incoming new girl.
But Xotichl just smiles and says, “Some might say I’m perceptive.”
“And what would you say?” I ask, my voice a little edgy, tired of being toyed with.
“I’d say I agree.” She lowers her head, tries in vain to hide the grin that sneaks onto her face.
I fidget. Heave my bag high onto my shoulder as I try to drum up some kind of reply. But before I can gather the words, the bell rings, and a swarm of students burst into the hall, while Xotichl stands in the middle, with an army of students careening around her.
“Do you need help?” I ask, not wanting to offend, but they all veer so close, it’s like they don’t even see her.
“Don’t we all?” She laughs, tapping the tip of her cane against the toe of my boot. “But in this case, I’m pretty sure you need way more help than I do. So, if you’re looking for the office, it’s straight ahead. Fifty-two steps from where we now stand. Though for you, it may be as few as forty-five—forty-seven tops—considering how much taller you are. And your legs are much longer too—lucky you.” She laughs again.
I squint, wondering how she could possibly know all that. Is she mocking me? Having fun at my expense? Is she not really blind? Is anyone in this town who they present themselves to be?
But before I can reply, she’s gone. Cane sweeping before her, heading down the hall as a path clears all around her.
twenty-five
I wish I’d prepared.
Wish I’d taken the time to do a little research by watching a weekend’s worth of high school–themed movies.
Because this—this school—this insane social scene—feels as foreign and chaotic as the day I got lost in the Moroccan medina.
It’s all about the bells. Bells are in charge around here—they rule everything. They usher us to class, scold us when we’re late, then prod us again when it’s time to move on. The sequence repeating over and over—until I’m just like everyone else, numbly reacting to that abruptly shrill sound.
Except, I’m not like everyone else. I’m not like anyone I’ve seen so far. And despite my attempts to blend in, thanks to the events in the hall between the mean girls and Cade, I now stand out in the very worst way.
Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. Not one single thing. I feel like a lab rat stuck in some horrible experiment meant to measure how I adapt to brutal forms of social segregation and weirdness. And the sad news is, I’m producing way below average results.
I stand to the side of the lunchroom, or cafeteria, or whatever they call it. The vegetarian lunch Paloma packed with great love and care tightly clutched in my fist, though I’ve no clue as to where I’m supposed to go eat it.
Having already committed the most heinous crime of all by sitting at the wrong table, I’m not sure I’m up for trying again. I’m still shaken by the way those girls acted—so self-righteous and territorial, so burdened by my presence at the end of their bench.
It’s the seniors’ table, I was told. I have no right to sit there. Ever. And that includes holidays and weekends.
“Duly noted,” I replied, grabbing my lunch and standing before them. “I’ll do my best to steer clear of it on Christmas. Easter as well. Though Valentine’s Day is a wild card I just can’t commit to.” And though it felt good at the time, I’ve no doubt it was a reckless act that only made things worse.
I heave a deep sigh and survey the room, wondering how Jennika might’ve handled such a thing back when she was my age. Barring the fact that she was already in her first trimester of carrying me, she’d probably head straight for the table where the bad boys sit, making them fall madly in love with her during the first five minutes.
And while the bad boys’ table isn’t all that hard to spot—just aim your dart for the guys dressed in leather jackets, trying too hard to look dangerous and jaded—and you’ve got yourself a bull’s-eye—I’m not the least bit like Jennika. I could never pull it off.
Besides, there’s only one true bad boy here, and as it just so happens, he’s the one no one suspects. He’s too pretty, too popular, too charismatic, too athletic, and smart, and alluring. Praised by both teachers and peers, he’s pretty much the king of everything. Class president, the star quarterback, a sure thing for prom king, no doubt. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one who remains unimpressed.
I take another glance—noting how the tables are systematically segregated. There’s the cowboy table, filled with kids wearing jeans, Western-style shirts and cowboy boots; the hippie table, where they all sport tie-dyed T-shirts, bandannas, and ripped jeans; the Native American table, where the majority wear flannel shirts and faded denim—all of them talking and laughing but clearly keeping to themselves. And after seeing all that, well, I finally understand the true meaning behind the sayings: Like seeks like.
And: Water seeks its own level.
They were talking about high school.
Or maybe just life in general.
The point is, people will always cling and conform in order to belong to something they want to be part of.
Even the fringe group, the ones who think they’re so arty and different, so outside the mainstream—no matter how outrageously indie they strive to be, it only takes one informed glance to see that they’re all conforming to each other. Without even realizing it, they’re keeping within their own defined boundaries.
That’s just the way it is. It’s never gonna be any different. And even though the day’s half over, I’ve yet to see anyone who’d consider sitting with me.
Well, Cade might, judging by the way he’s smiling and waving and gesturing for me to join him, but I know he’s not serious. It’s all a big show, designed to make him look funny and make me feel awkward and bad about myself.
As far as Xotichl goes—I can’t quite get a handle on her. Besides, I have no idea where she is. Haven’t seen her since that weirdness in the hallway this morning.
I turn my back on it all, push through the door, and slink down the hall. In search of a nice, quiet place where I can eat my lunch in silence and wait for yet another bell to tell me where to go.
Spotting a place at the end of a long row of lockers, I drop to the floor, reach into my bag, and smile when I discover Paloma packed one of my favorites: a small plastic container filled with goat cheese enchiladas covered with her amazing, homemade tomatillo sauce.
With my plastic fork at the ready, I’m about to dig in when I’m stopped by a soft rustling sound that could only come from a lunch sack. Wondering who could possibly b
e as big an outcast as me, I scooch forward just enough to peer around the bend where I spy a pair of long legs, dark jeans, and heavy, thick-soled black shoes so large I hope they belong to a guy. Then I retreat to my corner, happy to know I’m not nearly as alone as I’d thought—that I’m not the only friendless loser who doesn’t belong in this school.
twenty-six
The bell rings—again. That awful, shrill sound blaring through the hall, bouncing off the ugly beige walls and red metal lockers, sparking a stream of students into a flurry of movement, as I try my best to find my next classroom.
I pause by the door, schedule in hand, taking a moment to confirm I’m in the right place, since I really don’t need to make that particular mistake yet again.
Independent study. Right. Last class of the day—praise be, hallelujah, and more.
I make my way inside and introduce myself to the man at the podium bearing a squinty mean gaze, a cruel slash of a mouth, a size-too-small T-shirt forced to stretch over a belly that will always arrive well before the rest of him, and a crew cut so tight it’s mostly just scalp. Pausing when he places a red checkmark next to my name and tells me to grab any seat.
If I’ve learned anything today, it’s that it can’t be that easy. It may not be obvious at first sight, but somewhere in this deceptively innocuous classroom, territory has been staked, boundaries drawn, and an invisible wall erected, bearing an equally invisible sign that states clueless new girls like me are not welcome here.
“Any seat,” he barks, shooting me a look that’s already pegged me as just another moron in a succession of many.
I give the room a thorough once-over, noting how instead of the usual desks, it’s divided into a series of tall, square, black tables and old metal stools. All too aware of the way my fellow classmates track my movements, sighing with overblown relief when I pass them in favor of the back where I toss my bag onto a table, grab an empty stool, and ask, “This seat taken?” My eyes grazing over the only other occupant, a guy with long glossy dark hair with his head bent over a book.